


Weaving Dreams

by Cant_We_Just_Dance



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alex Is A Dick To Celestial Beings, Dreams, Hurricanes, Jamilton - Freeform, M/M, Metaphors, Nightmares, Other, Storms, Too Many Metaphors, i just dont WANT to explain, its hard to explain, kind of, not angst, not really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 13:55:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12234225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cant_We_Just_Dance/pseuds/Cant_We_Just_Dance
Summary: Thomas Jefferson was a being older than time itself. With each idea in a human's mind, he could weave dreams and spin stories of string and stardust- until one man in particular simply has no desire to dream.





	Weaving Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, this is @jamisahivemind from tumblr! Make sure to comment, kudos, and hang out with me over on the hellsite!

Being the weaver of dreams was no easy weight to be held upon one’s shoulders- but, Thomas supposed, it was a space in the world that needed to be filled one way or another. Otherwise, how would humans dream of worlds far better than the ones they’ve brought to themselves? 

Each tapestry was all too similar and yet found their way into uniqueness, excluding the ones that wrapped around the dreamer and tied tight knots, refusing to let go of them for months at a time. Strands of fabric flowing like the disassembled fragments of a flowing river through a long forgotten forest. The trees stood tall, folding in on themselves a canopy that cast dark shades onto the ground, where each idea sprouted up and oftentimes failed to grow any further than for a singular night.

As time wore on, splitting the cloth into torn pieces that fell to the same Earth they’d been so eager to grow out up from, Thomas found that it became more and more difficult to weave for humans. The brilliantly bright mind of children shone like sunlight, gleaming with inspiration and ideas to work off of- a perfectly blank canvas of mind. But alas, as it is with most things, time brought splashes of paint and unintentional textures to the pigmentation, ruining what had once been such an easy source of strings to twirl and twist round the human’s thoughts. Thoughts must be captured and tied down, so that one might find themselves able to keep a steady train of them, and while children lacked the tautness of woven fabric to hold down a thought. Adults, on the contrary, due to their inability to supply a wide variety of ideas to form, were able to have their thoughts held close to their hearts.

Most adult humans were able to have such a thing done to them, and for that, Thomas was immensely grateful. Most humans, that is. But, unfortunately, Alexander Hamilton was unable to be fit into the category of ‘most humans’.

Ever since the man’s childhood, each blank canvas had been painted upon, each idea had been explored to the fullest extent, and there were no dyes left to color fabric of any sort. All resources had been exhausted, and no matter what new thoughts trailed into Alexander’s mind during the hours of daylight, rest assured, Thomas would never find even the most miniscule of remnants of such wonderings. Puzzling a scenario as it was, Thomas had long ago learned to never look a gift horse in the mouth. Or a to look problem child in the mind. 

Dreams were difficult enough to weave, and Thomas’s workload was already far too immense for such small minds as the humans possessed to even begin to comprehend. A human lacking in the ability to dream was simply an avoided difficulty, and one he was well aware that he would be a fool to take for granted. Each dream, even the ones that begged for another chance at the spotlight, a request which Thomas would gladly oblige, demanded uniqueness- if one were not to consider the dreams which snuck beneath the line drawn by Thomas and into the minds of those they were not made for.

But in short? Alexander Hamilton had not the desire, nor the potential, to dream.

That, however, says nothing of nightmares.

Many fall prey to the common misconception that dreams and nightmares are the same beings, and while they happen to fall in the same category, they are not the same in any meaning of the word. Thomas wove dreams, and James, the man who had been his companion in the midnights ever since the first, did exactly the opposite.

Dreams were woven tapestries of stories that felt no obligation to become a truly plot-driven adventure. Each strand of fabric was spun together with the stray ideas and hopes of each person, used to hold down ideas that would otherwise find their way to an escape from the confines of their human’s mind. Colors and pigments and textures ran rampant in dreams, twirling and swirling round and round and round, ‘till they fell to the ground in a fit of giggles and laughter as eyes fluttered open in the morning light. And the swirlings and twirlings of description in their minds find their way into the durst particles floating through the air, only visible in the very sunlight that awoke the human they belonged to.

Nightmares were not creation. As one with any common sense or the ability to infer has already figured out by now, nightmares, as the opposite of dreams, were destruction. Each tear of the cloth had sound ringing through the ears of a human caught deep in the midst of a slumber, announcing their presence. Small strands split from those they had been brought together with, and, unable to express their emotions verbally, instead opted to find their way into the edges of one’s mind and tie things together that had no right being as close as they were. Sparks flickered up like tiny embers of the flame, which was quick enough to engulf the tapestry that had been so carefully woven. The sudden burst of unwelcome heat would awaken the mind of the person who held host to such destruction only moments before.

Different minds and differing opinions swirled together into clouds of darkness, hanging heavy over the horizon as Thomas’s workload found itself lightened, while James’s did quite the opposite. Hurricanes brought no pleasant dreams to residents of areas to be affected by them, save for the people who were themselves rather unpleasant. The world was slowly but surely becoming a messed up mesh of broken dreams, tattered fabric flapping in the wind as those who were not yet passed onto permanent dreams found no escape into anything other than the dark lace cloak of nightmare.

Alexander Hamilton was different, though. It seemed as though the youth had a specialty in doing that particular thing, anyways.

As Thomas scavenged the islands and in-the-process-of-being-wrecked wreckage for someone, anyone to give a dream, his eyes set upon the shivering form of a human he had only been able to admire from afar. The boy was curled up in the corner of a broken mess of buildings, clutching a small bundle of what seemed to be books to his chest as tightly as he could manage. 

This was the boy that had never experienced the warmth of a dream, the kind of fire that glowed as though it would never scorch one’s skin, but when such theory was tested, the person in question simply awoke, befuddled mind and confused thought a common side effect. Instead, Alexander had only ever known the cold, spindly and yet far too strong embrace of nightmarish terrors each time he sought shelter from reality in his mind during the hours where stars shone and the moon let off its iridescence to those willing to witness such glory.

If Thomas had a heart, he was well aware that a sharp pang of pain would be hitting it at that very moment. Sighing softly, he brought himself toward the nearly-dead human and extended his arm, a gesture of silent offer.

What a peculiar sight I must make, Thomas thought idly. A mere human watching on as I offer him an escape from the nightmares that have found their way into his mind so often, and now have escaped the confines of his head and wrought havoc to everyone and everything around him. How eager he must be to thank me, to pull me into a tight embrace which I will eagerly return. A being as generous as I should not have to wish for anything more than to finally find their way into the dream of a young man such as this, and finally weave something to cover the terrors torn into his mind from nightmares!

But as soon as Alexander lifted his gaze up from the floor up to Thomas, wide brown eyes narrowing in premature spite, it became abundantly clear to the weaver of dreams that his own thoughts were not shared with the human before him.

“I know what you are, and I have no desire to make your acquaintance, you foul creature,” Alexander spat, menace lacing his voice as though it were the cloth cover to a deadly weapon. His arms tightened around the books he held in his grasp, and he made no effort to stand, or even to reject Thomas in a kind way. As far as he was concerned, the being before him deserved no such accommodation.

“You are rather strange, to decline the offer of rescue from a being such as myself,” Tomas replied coolly, as though such a conversation were one he had fairly often, and had long ago became well-rehearsed, despite it being quite the opposite. The first time he dared take his human form, and this was how he found himself rewarded? If such behavior was typical amongst humans, he felt the twinge of realization that he would no longer find need to inhabit this particular appearance. “Have you not the understanding that I am offering you an escape, the ability to travel far, far away from here and into safety?”

“I understand perfectly well what you are offering me, and I am not in any way afraid to decline such offer. I am content to make my own way in this world, and rescue from a simple rainfall is the coward’s way out. Now begone with you!” Alexander declared, as if under the impression that he would be able to scare of or even mildly threaten Thomas.

“Very well,” Thomas answered, his tone no longer warm. Instead, it gained a tone of indifference- if this human were as ungrateful as he was brash, then there was no understandable reason to continue his attempt. “But, I find the need to ask you- why have I never been able to speak with you before, or find a place in your mind? Have you a desire for nightmares and only nightmares, never once seeking the comfort of a dream?”

At these words, Alexander grinned evilly, raising an eyebrow in amusement and holding back a cold chuckle. “I find that if dreams create, and nightmares destroy- as many have known and written down in books I find myself longing to read- then a lack of both is simply what I require. If there is nothing to destroy, nothing will be destroyed. And if I can create for myself I find that nightmares do not possess the knowledge to destroy such creations. As I have told you, I seek no coward’s escape. Dreams are escape for those who have open hearts, open wide enough to accept the terrors of night.”

Refusing to give the other being the satisfaction of a proper answer, Thomas pivoted on his feet, scowling, and left the room, or perhaps that particular plane of existence- perhaps both.

But certainly, his absence would not be for long.

Some people are just too intriguing to be forgotten- and forgetting a man such as Alexander was something Thomas had no intention of doing.


End file.
